


don't slip on the broken edges

by carloabay



Category: Captain Marvel (2019), Marvel Cinematic Universe, WandaVision (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Kissing, Memories, Monica Rambeau has ADHD, Monica Rambeau is a genius, S.W.O.R.D - Freeform, Swearing, This is sad as shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:48:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28945422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carloabay/pseuds/carloabay
Summary: Maria knows it's hard to measure the days. It doesn't stop her sinking.Nick can remember Carol Danvers, even through a storm of bullshit.Monica swears to always know, and always learn, and never forget.
Relationships: Carol Danvers & Monica Rambeau, Carol Danvers & Nick Fury, Carol Danvers/Maria Rambeau
Comments: 12
Kudos: 92





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi i'm full of Cap Marvel angst enjoy

Some nights she watched the stars, and she's got that ugly old mug clutched in her hands, full of tepid black tea like it means something.

She doesn't drink it. The tea ripples, reflecting the sky, like she's waiting for Carol to zoom down and snatch it out her hands and down it like a pint. Maybe flash her a grin and they'll shoot the same old shit for a while and the whole world will light back up into daytime--

Maria can measure the days in gritted teeth and slipping wrenches, the stink of oil and half-bitter memories.

"I made a rocket outta cardboard at school today," Monica says, kicking the underside of the table as she spoons pasta into her mouth with alarming speed.

Maria doesn't want to be empty and distant and yearning and full of old relics. If Monica can't have Carol, she'll damn well have two of Maria instead. 

"Can I see it?" she asks, eyes drifting to the window.

"Nah, left it at school."

"Was this physics?"

"Uh-huh."

"You get a good grade?" Monica rolls her eyes obnoxiously, and Maria feels like she's been stabbed in the diaphragm. Jesus Christ, that's an echo.

"Course I did," Monica says, slurping tomato sauce off her spoon. She kicks the underside of the table once more, then scuffs her shoe on the leg of her stool. "Mom, when's Carol coming back?" Maria stares at her. Monica stares back, dark and stern. Maria traces an old iced tea stain on the wood of the table, and doesn't think about who put it there.

_"Carol Danvers, you are a goddamn slob," Maria snorts, as Carol scrubs desperately at the stain._

_"Aw, shucks, you got me," Carol drawls mockingly, drawing out the tease. She cracks the cloth at Maria and it wraps limply around her wrist._

_"This table costs more than all your teeth," Maria says, trying for stern. Carol grins back, and the dim bulb light winks off those teeth. "Get scrubbing."_

_"Yes, ma'am," Carol says, and she wiggles her ass in the air as the cloth comes down on the table again._

"I don't know, sweetie." The air settles cold between them. 

"Are we waiting for her?" 

"I guess that's the question, isn't it?" Maria says, before she can stop herself. She snatches her hand back from the tea stain. Monica studies her. "Yeah, we're waiting."

"Hm." Monica starts eating again. "Maybe I'll meet her halfway," she mumbles, around a mouthful of food. Maria raises an eyebrow.

"In your little cardboard pop rocket?" she teases. The sun is going down. Another day. Must be like seconds for Carol. All distant and alone, spinning amongst the stars.

"Rude," Monica says, and she licks her bowl. That's the final straw.

"Where the hell are your manners, kid?" Maria cries, and Monica grins. "Come on. Momma didn't raise you like this."

"Sorry," Monica drawls, tipping her head back and forth, and her curls wobble. 

Maria could draw a line between all the things Monica and Carol share.

She could waste away on this. 

Monica's bright and hopeful and damn beautiful, and Maria may be dusty and creaking with all the space Carol left behind, but there's no way in hell she's gonna let both of them go like that.

One day Monica will shoot off into space, too, and Maria'll be left all alone, growing old, getting grey with yearning.

It's gonna be a long time coming, though. She's not gonna waste time sitting like a war widow in a rocking chair. She'll decide that right now, and one day, if Monica wants to spring away, too, Maria's going to let her.

You can't hold on to free spirits forever. And she can wait. She's got a life to get on with. You can't waste life in a sinkhole, else nothing's ever gonna get done.

Maria's nothing if not practical.

The next day, she doesn't look out the window once.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maria Hill is competent as hell. She’s not Carol, but Nick’s given up trying to replace Carol long ago.

It's always paperwork.

And it's always Coulson, sticking his neatly combed head around the door, nervous eyes and pasted smile.

He’s in tac gear still, bruises breaking up his skin, splotches of black and purple and red.

“Leave it on the tray,” Nick grunts, waving his pen without looking up.

“No paperwork, sir,” Coulson replies, and Nick blotches a period in weary frustration.

“Then what the hell is it?” he growls, and he looks up, and Agent Hill is standing framed in the doorway, kevlar vest and combat pants and boots and her tac helmet swinging from what looks suspiciously like a set of broken fingers. “Agent Hill?”

"We’ve found the Black Widow,” she says.

And Nick’s world descends once again into madness from that second on.

He promotes her, because how the hell could he not? This woman tracked down the Black Widow under orders not to engage, risking her job and her life, and emerged with nothing more than injuries and nothing less than a defected KGB agent.

He promotes Barton, because the idiot sat his ass right in the line of fire and spread his cheeks, and got an internationally renowned assassin out of it.

Nick lets Director Carter bury the records just before she retires, and watching his in-tray deflate does wonders for his blood pressure.

Maria Hill is terrifyingly competent. The first time Nick smiles in ten months is the exact second a furious Agent Hill tells a four-star general exactly where he can shove it, live on a call in front of the World Security Council. In more eloquent terms, of course.

(The idiot shouldn’t have thrown a slur at her.)

(If it hadn’t been a holographic call, Nick would have raised his fists for the first time in probably eight years.)

Hill doesn’t hesitate, either. She doesn’t second-guess. She barrels like a bull through all the snotty nonsense, and she runs circles around seasoned politicians with twice her power. Nick _likes_ her.

She’s been Deputy Director for two days when she finds the transmitter. It’s his fault. He had it in the pocket of his coat like an idiot.

“What is that?” she asks, overeager, already running an analysis in her head. Nick seesaws between options, but she can smell a lie from a mile, and half-truths infuriate her to the point of that famously icy glare. He doesn’t want to be on the other end of that, no sir.

“Transmitter,” Nick says, and he snatches it back from her and throws it into his open desk drawer, bumps it closed with his hip.

Hill crosses her arms.

"Transmitter to who?"

"Classified." She snorts like a bull.

"Don't pull the 'classified' shit on me, Nick. Come on. What have you got to hide?" She's teasing him now, but he can feel the edge on her voice. She's curious, and knowing her, she won't back down.

"A superhero," he says, with a shrug. Hill barks a laugh. Nick shrugs again, and she stops laughing.

"Oh, my God. You're serious?" Wide-eyed, thoughts spinning a mile a minute behind her eyes.

"Dead serious."

" _Superhero_?"

"Her name's Carol."

"Of course it is. Carol the superhero."

"Don't ask me if-"

"Do I get to meet her?"

"Damnit, Hill," he groans. "No, you can't meet her."

"Why not?"

"Cause she hasn't been back on this godforsaken rock for twenty damn years, that's why not! And I'm still hushing up the mess she left behind!" He presses the heel of his palm into his forehead. "Seems like every other day I find another motherfucking piece of alien equipment." He doesn't dare to look up. He doesn't want to see regret colouring Hill's face. "I sometimes kinda wish it might be her, y'know. Crash landing, or something."

"Girlfriend?" Hill asks, tentatively. Nick huffs a harsh laugh.

"Nah. Hell of a friend, though."

"She sounds selfish," Hill says, and she sounds venomous on Nick's behalf, for a woman she's never met.

"To us, maybe. Some things you gotta sacrifice."

"Why don't you call her?" Hill asks. She stuffs her hands in her pockets.

"What, 'cause I miss her?" Nick snarls sarcastically. "She's out saving the galaxy. People like that ain't got time for people like us."

"Us?"

"A woman and her kid," Nick replies, and he's spilt too much already, but damn if it doesn't feel good to get this off his chest. It's like his lungs have been tight with hope for years, and Hill has just casually pricked them with a pin. _Bang_ , and it all comes heaving out.

"She's got a kid she doesn't come back for?" Hill says, aghast. Nick shrugs.

"Well. She hasn't come back to see me. Don't doubt she's been to a science fair or two." Hill's silent for a second. "You can't resent people you've never met, Hill."

"Hm," Hill says, and when Nick looks up again, Hill is gone and the door is swinging closed.

He doesn't give it much more thought. Every time he opens the drawer, though, Carol Danvers blinks up at him through the transmitter. He covers it with a blank sheet of paper.

It takes her three weeks to figure the transmitter out.

Okay, fine, it takes Fitzsimmons two hours. It took her three weeks of deliberating and grinding her teeth and flicking all the buttons before giving in and taking it down to the Hub labs. Personally delivered, of course.

She doesn't quite threaten the two scientists into silence, but the looks on their faces are reminiscent of the time she told Agent Davis that she'd strip his spine from his body if he ever told anyone where she went on Thursday nights.

(That's classified.)

"It's retro tech, but..." says Agent Fitz, knocking the thing lightly with a hammer. "...it's been enhanced. I've never...seen tech like this before." The transmitter beeps, and he knocks it again.

"Careful," Maria growls. "That's worth more than both our jobs." He looks suitably abashed. Agent Simmons rests her elbows on the surface of the table, dropping her chin into her hands.

"What do you want us to do with it?" she asks.

"I want to call the person on the other end," Maria says. The two scientists exchange a look.

"Um-" says Fitz.

"I didn't ask for caution, I asked you to help me."

"Yes, Deputy Director," Fitz replies, carefully. "It's text, though. Here, switch on, there's the keyboard coming up, and..." he presses a few buttons, and the screen lights up. Reluctantly, he hands it over. "...here. Go nuts."

Maria takes it, thanks them, and beats feet home before the lab starts filling up again.

There’s a blonde leaning on his car. Hands in jean pockets, one Conversed foot swinging carelessly back and forth. Black cap.

His hand is on his gun, instinct over memory, every time. The blonde turns her face away from the stale breeze drifting through the parking lot, and she catches sight of him, frozen in between a moped and a black van. Nick blinks.

Carol motherfucking Danvers raises a hand and waves.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the book, by memory, by pen and paper and scribbled math, Monica hauls herself to victory. She hauls herself to the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Monica's training for S.W.O.R.D but I know nothing abt it lol except apparently Maria Rambeau created it at least in the MCU so here we fuckin go
> 
> Haven’t watched WandaVision but I WILL VERY SOON i’m So excited apparently Monica and Darcy and the FBI guy are in it

Line under line, little crosses like markings on a map. The paper indents under the pen nib, and the numbers start to stutter, ink running out.

Monica presses harder. It's a biro, it won't blot.

She comes up with two point eight.

That's not right. Damn, _shit_ that's not right.

To her left, the clock leers at her, four minutes thirty two seconds to go.

Thirty one.

Thirty.

She scribbles out the middle line frantically, shoves a hand into the curls at the back of her head. They'll be fucking frizzy with her sweat when she's out in the sun, tangled all together.

 _Think, think_ , she thinks, but all she can hear between her ears is _think, think_.

Gravity cancels out.

That's _fucking_ it.

Her wrist streams across the paper, collecting smudges of black, not bothering to print the numbers anymore, and the calculation becomes a cloud of math and little crosses like markings on a map. Star maps.

 _Shut up and do the fucking math_ , she screams at her brain, even as her fingers work separately and her thoughts drift to star maps.

Monica sprawls the answer across the dotted line and double underlines it, desperately, the pen squeaking in protest.

"Time," the invigilator calls, and someone behind Monica sits back with a gusty groan of disappointment.

Victory floods her face instantly, that recognisable euphoria.

 _Not me_ , she thinks, tugging on the curls at the back of her neck. A strand of hair gets caught on a crooked hangnail. Monica yanks herself free and smooths adrenaline-trembling hands over the front of her shirt.

Christ, she's sweaty, the cold kinda sweat.

The invigilator swipes her paper away and moves on, and Monica jams her pen lid into her mouth, chewing gently.

So that's four exams down. She's got the physical in the bag, and then it's final stages. Final stages, almost there.

Monica grins straight ahead, almost giggles with it.

"And?" her mom asks, over the phone, tension stringing her voice.

"Aced it," Monica says, throwing chips in her mouth and twirling the line around her finger with the other hand, half-grinning, phone trapped between her chin and shoulder.

She hears a rustle, the tap of feet, that's her mom doing a stupid little dance around the kitchen. Monica snorts into the mouthpiece. The dial ticks down on the phone.

"Hell yeah," her mom says, breathlessly, coming back to the phone. "That's my girl."

"Physical next."

"Pfft, in the bag."

"Yeah," Monica replies, letting praise and hope bloom in her belly. The sun melts through the clear phone booth, and a car door slams in the distance. "Hey, Mom, any word?" She tries for casual, misses it by about a country mile. "From-"

"Nothing from Carol, sweetie," her mom replies, and Monica can envision her eyes tightening, that furtive glance out the window. Monica crunches the empty chip bag into nothing and stuffs it into her pocket.

"Cool. Listen, I've got about twenty seconds left on the call, anything you gotta tell me?" Her mom laughs, and it goes like this every time. The phones wrangle nickels like thirties hookers.

"No more nickels? Okay. Finally took the plane out, had a chat with our _great_ friend Mr Fury over the phone, worked my ass off over a UFO sighted over Dublin, fell asleep on my couch at six thirty last night," she rattles off. Monica snorts again. "Sad little life, I know."

The dial on the phone clicks impatiently.

"I gotta go, Mom," Monica says, hastily. "I love you."

"I love you so much, baby girl," her mom replies, voice getting high with hurry. "You're gonna do amazing! Call me when-"

The call ends with a click and a dial tone. Monica hangs up, licks chip dust off her fingers, ignores the hole in her belly.

Sometimes it gets like this. Wish, wish, wish, better times, old memories taunting like gold, all that. She shouldn't have asked about Carol.

Monica sets her shoulders back, wrestles her way out of the foggy booth, and goes to train.

"How'd you get into this, anyway?" Aubrey asks, kicking her feet up on the bench as Monica pulls on a shirt.

"Mom."

"I thought your mom was in the air force?"

"Exactly," Monica says, right at the time she realises Maria-mom hadn't been who she'd been taking about. She gives Aubrey a quick grin. "Higher, further, faster, baby." _Ouch_. Obviously she's spacy when there's blood in her muscles and not in her brain.

"Makes sense, I guess," Aubrey replies, looping an exercise band around the foot of her sneaker. "It's the legacy, right?" She mouths _higher, further, faster_. Monica catches the spike of jealousy before it shows on her face. "That's catchy, that. You come up with it?"

"It's coined," Monica teases, and there's a part of her that's groaning, aching at the sky. _Jesus_. This isn't a good topic. She tossed her sweaty headband into her bag and zips it halfway, then slings her bag over her shoulder, eager to leave and go study in her dorm to block out the phone call from earlier.

She shouldn't have mentioned Carol.

Why the hell does it still sting?

Four fucking years, that's why.

There's gotta be a part of Monica that will be pissed as all hell when (if) ( _when_ ) Carol comes back. Mostly, though, Monica knows she won't be angry. She'll be fucking ecstatic, and then when Carol's gone again, Monica will hate herself for not saying _something_.

Four people drop out at the physical: one of them swoons and has to be carried off in a stretcher.

Monica blasts through it.

It's horrible and it's gruelling, but she comes out the other side sweaty and dirty and grinning.

One of the boys casts her a nasty look.

Final stages.

"Hi, I'm Carol. I'm looking for-"

"Last name?" asks the receptionist, squinting at Carol through the harsh fluorescent light. He’s greyish, looks like he hasn’t seen a sun in days. Carol blinks at him. Nice to know C-53 hasn't changed.

"Danvers. I'm looking for Monica Rambeau."

The receptionist scoffs. Carol has the quick urge to punch a hole through his jaw.

"Clearance level?" he asks.

"Uh-" Carol manages. _Fuck_. The receptionist purses his lips and goes back to tapping on his keyboard.

She should know Monica's goddamn rank.

“Seven?” she guesses. The receptionist sighs.

“I doubt it,” he says, and reaches for his mouse. There’s a long silence, the tapping of his fingers on the thick keys, the squeeze of him sucking on his teeth. Carol balls her hands in her pockets. “Level one,” he says. “Monica Rambeau? Operative in training?”

“Guess so,” Carol mutters, burning with shame. He looks her up and down.

“You’re not on the guest list, Ms Danvers.”

“I know,” she grumbles. “I need to see her.” The receptionist raises a skinny eyebrow.

“Then I can’t let you in.” Carol gives him her sweetest smile, but it feels a lot like baring her teeth. The receptionist blinks slowly at her, unimpressed.

“Surely you can make an exception.”

“Carol?” someone calls, and Carol turns. There’s a young woman striding across the reception area, white and black boiler-suit uniform, lanyard, boots, wide brown eyes, and a cloud of curls arranged into bunches. “ _Carol_?” she repeats, and she starts running, boots cracking on the white floor. Before Carol can register anything— how she’s grown, how beautiful she is now, how strong she looks in her uniform, Monica Rambeau has flung herself forwards and wrapped her arms around Carol’s shoulders.

It feels like being strangled, for the most part.

“Hey, kid,” Carol chokes, into Monica’s shoulder. Behind them, the receptionist mutters something and takes a noisy slurp of a drink.

Monica lets go, steps back, and Carol can barely look her in the eyes.

"When'd you get so tall?" she jokes, throat closing up.

Monica punches her. _Thump_ , into her shoulder. Carol barely feels it, she rocks back on her heels anyway with the momentum.

Monica's eyes are welling, gleaming with tears.

"Ow?" Carol tries.

"Oh, don't," Monica sniffles, and she pulls her in for another hug.

She isn't so lucky with Maria.

Monica breezes by security up to Maria's office with a cute little smile, hand firmly around Carol's wrist, and Carol lets herself be hauled along.

She admires the corridors, the workers, agents, files, boots on floors, everything's a rush.

Everything Maria built. It's fantastic.

Monica shoves her in through Maria's office door.

"Mom, guess who!" Maria looks up.

There's a very, very long pause. Carol starts to get this feeling in her gut, like she should turn and fucking run: maybe it's the look in Maria's eye, like a knife, like a trigger.

Maria sets her pen down slowly.

And she springs from her chair and is across the room in an instant, hand on Carol's shoulder, and she's _shaking_ her, tossing her back and forth with a strong arm, and Carol's brain rattles in its skull--

"You-- complete-- ass! Carol Danvers!"

"Mom, Mom!" Monica yells, and she dives in, arm around Maria's waist, just as Maria takes a goddamn swing at Carol's face and misses by half an inch. Monica drags her backwards, groaning, and Carol stares at them both, miserably frozen.

Maria gets herself under control, slowly.

"Hi," Carol croaks. Maria snaps something unrepeatable, and Monica's grip slips on her arm in shock.

"Mom!"

"Monica, why don't you go outside?" Carol manages, weakly. Her pulse is shivering under her ribcage, and Maria's gaze locks onto her like a lion.

"Don't you tell my daughter what to do!" Maria growls. "Monica, go outside." She hesitates. "Please."

Monica obeys, letting go slowly, wide-eyed. The door clicks softly shut behind her.

Maria is shaking with rage. She's also wearing a uniform, and Carol has to force herself to concentrate.

" _Asshole_ ," Maria grits out, and Carol flinches back ever so slightly. The long window beside Maria's desk glows with hot light.

"I'm sorry," she manages, after a few seconds of gathering her courage.

"You--" Maria trips on her words, and then she's striding towards Carol, hands out like she's going to strangle her--

\--Carol can do nothing, her feet, cold and solid in her shoes, wide-eyed, Maria bearing down on her--

\--Maria grabs Carol's jacket collar and kisses her. Crushing Carol's teeth against her lip. Hot skin. Carol's hands fly to Maria's hips to tug her closer, and Maria pulls back, gasping.

"Jackass," she growls, right against Carol's mouth. "I _missed_ you."

"I'll do the laundry for a year," Carol pants back.

"Three," Maria says. Carol leans forward and flicks her tongue over Maria's lip, watching her eyes darken, and Maria gasps again.

"Forever," Carol replies. Maria starts to grin.

"Fuck you."

"I love you," Carol whispers, pressing a kiss to the corner of Maria's mouth. Maria's hands tighten on her collar, as Carol's lips move down to her jaw. "I'm sorry." Maria hesitates. "I'm not going anywhere," Carol says, and Maria yanks her back to her face.

"For now," Maria replies, but before Carol can protest, Maria's hands are under her shirt and her lips are on her collarbone. "When you do go," she whispers into Carol's ear, "you're taking my laundry with you." Carol laughs, her legs shaking.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment & kudos s'il vous plaît
> 
> love ya


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